


Nothing Worth Living For

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slash, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-06
Updated: 2005-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-29 22:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10146206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: One off, angst.  Harry writes a letter to Malfoy, one that Harry knows Malfoy will never read.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, it all belongs tothe richest woman in the world: Miss J. K Rowling. Im just 'borrowing' the characters for my own sordid little fantasies.

**Nothing Worth Living For**

_An elderly man, with bright green eyes that are sad, alone and show a thousand tears sits at a writing desk. Staring at an over grown garden through the window. He holds an ornate quill that seems almost as old as he is. Its inscribed with a name: ‘Malfoy’. The elderly man whose name is Harry thinks, he needs to write a letter, but he doesn’t know where to begin. His entire life he has never known where to begin…_

It’s taken me a long time to work up the courage to write this. Sixty years to be exact. My god it has felt like sixty years, my old bones feel it everyday. I can’t believe you are gone, still to this day. My brain won’t accept it, it won’t accept that you are gone. I wake up in the morning and still my hand reaches out to touch you, to feel your heat, to touch your beautiful soft skin, your beautiful pale white ivory skin. Skin that used lie beside me, heat that used to keep me warm, hands that used to touch and to tingle my skin. Skin that used to belong to me. And I that used to belong to you. Together, we made two halves to a whole. Like they used to say…you the bad me the good. I loved you, _I love you_ more than anything in this world, more than myself. The air I breath is stale without you, I’ve forgotten what it is to smile - but I certainly haven’t forgotten how to cry, god knows I certainly haven’t forgotten that trick.

I don’t know why I’m doing this, why after all these years I’m trying to exorcise your ghost. But none the less, today I woke up 81 years old - practically blind, deaf as a door knob - and found my hands itching for a quill, itching to write my thoughts to you, to tell you I love you. One last time. Before I die. Its funny, seeing myself write about my imminent death, writing with your quill to you - you who’s not here, even though you should be. It’s not fair, my entire life I have been here on my own. But I shouldn’t be - you should be beside me, if not now then at least for longer than you ever were. You were taken from me. Taken and I couldn’t do anything about it. I was the golden boy wonder - I could save the whole of the wizarding world, but I couldn’t save you.

I sit here, and In my minds eye I can see you in our garden. It, like me, has seen better days. But your still here, still here in my head. Your ghost still wanders in the rooms of this house. You’re like my shadow, there but as unsubstantial as mist. Something I can’t touch, but you’re there none-the-less. I can hear you coming home every night. Six o’clock, with a bottle of wine - enough for me and you. Six o’clock, I hear the flame of floo powder rise up, I hear you and run to the fire place (or hobble - its all I can manage these days) to see an empty grate. And my own shrivelled up refection in the mirror. Sometimes I walk past the mirror in our hall, my hall and I see you there standing behind me - but when I look back your gone. I can still smell you, your fresh clean smell, of your perfect ivory skin. And when I smell you, hear you and think I see you, I wonder how things could have been.

When you …died (I still can’t get used to that) I felt so alone. I was only 21 and already I’d lost the only good thing in my life. I could have helped you, I could have saved you - but you didn’t tell me, you didn’t tell me what you were doing. And then it was too late. I think of when we used to be together. Skin on skin, heat on heat, smothering each other with kisses, feeling you near me and hearing you whisper my name. I think of what we could have had, I think of how you would look now. You would be so handsome I know it, old yet still mischievous, still a steely grey glint in your eyes. And I miss you, I miss the life we could have had , I miss the man I could have been, I miss the man you can never become. 

I sit here and I think of all the years I have wasted in your memory and today I awoke and I realised I don’t have anymore time to waste. I feel my life is nearly spent and I both fear and look forward to the moment when I leave this hell on earth. I hope when my time ends that it is like the moment between dreaming and waking. The moment of every morning when I forget that you died 60 years ago, and I forget that I am an old man and that you will always be 21. The moment when I can feel you next to me and still feel your breath on my neck. The moment when I feel I’m truly alive.

This morning though, something had changed. I realised I need to let you go, for my own sake. I realised that I’ve been dying since the day you left me and for the first time I thought maybe I didn’t want to die. But I know that it is too late. I’ve wasted my life in the hope that every bit that I waste would bring you back.

Today I picked up your quill. Tomorrow like you, I know I’ll be dead.

_An old tired Harry with bright green eyes, puts down his quill. He sighs sadly but a smile plays upon his lips, as he walks past the mirror he pretends not to notice the shadow in the mirror with glint, grey eyes._


End file.
